


For All Seasons

by Emelye



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Angst, Angsty Schmoop, First Time, M/M, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-27
Updated: 2012-12-27
Packaged: 2017-11-22 16:15:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/611749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emelye/pseuds/Emelye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes loved John Watson with all of his magnificently large and well-concealed heart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For All Seasons

Sherlock Holmes loved John Watson with all of his magnificently large and well-concealed heart. From the first to the last, Watson was his companion, his confidant, his Boswell, his brother-at-arms, his partner in crime, and his dear, dear friend. Never did Watson suspect anything untoward in Holmes’ affections, for his regard was returned with an equal depth of loyalty and love. He’d made allusion to his predilections, but the man, inclined as he was always to think the best of Holmes and never the worst, never understood. Never comprehended that the love Holmes felt for Watson was anything other than that of a man for a close comrade. And so the years passed, and Holmes, being a realist and not prone to flights of fancy, suppressed these feelings as custom had long dictated and consoled himself with the admirable company of the best of all men, work to satisfy his mind and all the comforts of English domesticity.  


His Watson married. And though it broke something of his heart to know it, to watch his friend leave their rooms, he understood in a practical manner that a man of Watson’s appetites wouldn’t be content to live life as a bachelor when there was another alternative on offer and the friendship they cherished could ever remain as it was.  


Baker Street was colder and altogether less welcoming without him. Mrs. Hudson did try, bless her, but though Holmes had a solitary nature and had resigned himself to a life devoid of marriage or domestic companionship long ago, Watson had clearly imbued in him a weakness for his company.  


Their friendship remained stalwart, however, and it was with genuine dismay that he embarked on his three year ‘hiatus’ from his company in order to complete that great work he undertook in destroying thoroughly Professor James Moriarty.  


Watson was far more forgiving of the deception than he might have been. He was a widower now, and Holmes acknowledged a pang of regret in his heart for the passing of Mrs. Watson, ever so tolerant as she’d been and a credit to her sex. He fully expected his invitation to room once again in Baker Street to be rebuffed, but alas, his dear Watson could scarcely return fast enough.  


It was on a night not long after this that the matter came to a head. It was late in the evening, supper long since past and well into their third brandy that their conversation took a turn for the candid. It wasn’t uncommon for them to speak plainly in their own company. They were men of the world after all, but Holmes typically remained taciturn on the more amorous topics, content to hear Watson expound upon tales of his youthful conquests, allowing him to gather the impression of aloof indifference or even disdain for the subject, whilst in secret, he treasured each confession for the simple fact of it having been Watson’s heart exposed.  


Watson sighed, a deep swallow, then, “How strange to think of it all as behind me. I’d hoped to live out the rest of my years with Mary. I’d not considered a return to bachelorhood.”  


“You used to quite enjoy the company of a number of young widows, if memory serves.”  


Watson smiled sadly. “I found myself rather affected by the experience of becoming a widower for a second time. In the company of the bereaved I’m rather more apt to speak of Mary which proves quite counterproductive.”  


Holmes returned with all sympathy and little tact, “What of hired company?”  


Watson laughed and the knowing in his eyes caused him nearly to blush. “You forget I’m a doctor. I’ve seen only too frequently the results of such an arrangement and I’ve no desire to spend my remaining years applying various salves and remedies to an incurable condition where I’d least desire to find one.”  


Holmes smirked. “Well I suppose as needs must, nature does attend—”  


Watson interrupted with a casual sweep of his hand. “It’s not passion, Holmes. It’s the intimate caress of someone familiar and beloved. It’s a shared bed and a thousand little touches that comfort where you hadn’t realized you’d been lacking them.”  


Holmes swallowed against the lump in his throat. “I see.” Watson hummed and sipped his brandy. “Perhaps…perhaps you might meet someone again?”  


Watson smiled wistfully. “I rather think not, Holmes. And to be plain, I’m not certain I wish to leave Baker Street. What about you, my good man? All these years, and no thoughts of marriage?”  


Holmes looked into the fire for an answer not easily forthcoming. “I’ve considered it in the abstract.”  


“Has there never been anyone to capture your imagination?”  


Holmes smiled. “Very long ago, but the circumstances were quite prohibitive.”  


“I’m very sorry to hear it. What was her name?”  


Holmes felt a cold sweat upon his brow as he answered, “Victor.” The silence was total. “I do apologize. I shouldn’t have spoken. But—I found myself encouraged by your own candor. If you wish to leave I’ll not stop you.” He did not turn to meet his friend’s face but heard him rise. His countenance fell.  


Watson’s hand came down upon his shoulder. “My friend, I owe you an apology. I’d long thought you cold and indifferent when all along nothing could have been further from the truth. You are a man of great internal fortitude and I can’t begin to imagine the strength required to keep such a matter private for such a long time. But why, Holmes? You’ve no great affection for religion that I know and while I am perfectly aware such acts are illegal, nevertheless there are a great many inverts who manage to find discrete comfort.”  


Holmes sighed and sat beside his friend. “I’m afraid discretion is of little consequence when one’s vocation requires one to bring to light the unseen. I’ve made a great many enemies, Watson. I decided long ago that I myself must remain above reproach if I wished to carry out this work. One misstep, one mistake, to trust the wrong person, to let down my guard for an instant at the wrong moment, and my work would be discredited and I would find myself in gaol to the delight of the criminal classes.”  


“My dear chap, I’m sorry to hear it.”  


Watson’s compassion felt torturous. “And you, Watson, are you not scandalized? Disgusted by my moral failings?”  


The good doctor had the audacity to roll his eyes. “Holmes, I’ve been a doctor and surgeon for nearly thirty years and a soldier as well. I’ve seen a bit of the world and a great deal of immorality and horror that aberrant affections could hardly begin to touch. You are the same man as ever you were, my friend and my colleague, and I dare say it will take a bit more than that to put me off.”  


Holmes wanted to swoon with relief, but was then subjected to a new crisis when, a moment later, he found himself the recipient of a crushing embrace from the doctor. He accepted this compact wordlessly and stiffly, not wishing to further endanger their friendship with any sort of proof of inappropriate ardor.  


He turned to the fire, seeking the tobacco from the Persian slipper and filled his pipe, willing his heart to stop racing and his emotions to cease their ferocious roiling within his chest.  


“Holmes?”  


“You’re a loyal and steadfast man, John Watson. I do hope you find the companionship you so richly deserve,” he said, though his voice sounded false to his own ears. He had no way of knowing how it sounded to Watson.  


“I rather thought I had. Or have you mistaken me entirely?”  


It was too much. Holmes turned in a whirl and rounded on him. “I have not, Watson, but you are hardly a man of temperate desires. Do not attempt to pacify me with promises you cannot hope to keep when we both know neither of us can satisfy.”  


“What has gotten into you, man? I just told you—”  


“And I’m telling _you_ ,” Holmes said, voice shaking damnably. “I cannot bear it again, and perhaps it would be best to cease the pretense altogether. _I_ am satisfied as much as I’ve ever hoped to be. And I am also equally assured that you are not, and as such, I have resigned myself to the knowledge that my own happiness is as temporary as your devotion.”  


Watson grew red in the face and drew himself up as if to strike a physical blow upon his person. “You dare… You call me loyal and steadfast and then inconstant in the next breath!”  


“I love you!”  


They were not the words he’d intended to say, but now that the moment was upon him, Holmes would not discredit them. “I love you,” he repeated hollowly. “I apologize. It is my burden and my sin to carry. I’d no intention of inflicting it upon you, but you see, my good man, I’ve no hope that you could content yourself to remain with me in this manner. Your natural inclinations will pull you to the arms of one woman or another. It’s only natural, just as I shall live out the rest of my days without consummation or even reciprocation of the greatest—” his voice broke yet again on the confession, “the greatest love I have ever known.”  


Holmes turned back to the fire, unwilling to watch as his friend resolved himself and took himself away to pack up his belongings and be rid of him finally. It was a small mercy that the man would likely not implicate him in any scandal that might impugn his reputation, but it was cold comfort at best. A home without a John Watson in it was no home at all.  


The feeling of Watson’s hand upon his shoulder, gently compelling him, came as something of a shock. Holmes turned at the impetus and found himself kissed. His Watson’s lips were warm and chaste, but his senses were filled with his beloved and Holmes was helpless to resist the hypnotic effect. His hand rose of its own volition to cup Watson’s neck and increase and encourage the liberty taken. Watson’s own hand tightened upon his shoulder before sliding lower to caress his arm through the sleeve of his dressing gown.  


A moment later he withdrew, his eyes softened and hooded, though Holmes could not bring himself to trust the evidence of his own eyes until Watson said, “Oddly enough, I find that I love you as well. Would you mind terribly if I took you to bed?”  


Holmes could not contain his laugh, and soon the two men were leaning against one another in paroxysms of absurdity. “My god, man, I thought you were leaving.”  


“I believe I made myself clear on that point,” said Watson, regarding him with a fond smile. “Should I find occasion to leave Baker Street, it will be because you and I have become very old men and require a retreat to the country. I shall never leave you again, Holmes. I loved Mary, and I shall never regret marrying her, but I will always feel terribly that it caused you such immense pain and that you suffered in silence for my sake for so many years.”  


Holmes dared to take his friend’s hand as he too pledged himself. “I likewise have cause to promise I shan’t abandon you again.”  


Watson squeezed his hand. “My, but we’ve treated each other’s hearts abominably.”  


“Yes, we have, rather,” Holmes agreed, his thumb caressing the soft and weathered texture of his beloved Watson’s hand. “I think it is fair to warn you that while I am familiar with desire, it’s practice is something of a mystery to me.”  


The air seemed to go out of the room all at once. Watson’s breath was hot and dry as he lifted Holmes’ hand to his mouth and kissed it reverently. “Holmes,” was muttered under his breath.  


With a burst of energy, courage or some propelling fear, Watson found his mouth abruptly covered and plundered. Holmes’ touch, though enthusiastic as it glanced across his shoulders, fingers fairly bruising, was obviously unpracticed.  


Watson took him by the shoulders and pushed him back. “Steady,” he said. Holmes blushed and hung his head. Watson’s tilted his chin up until their eyes met. “Slowly,” he instructed, drawing him forward into his embrace. Holmes was enveloped in his arms and it was glorious. Watson took control of the kiss once again. He found himself becoming increasingly uncomfortable in the confines of his trousers and nearly came apart when a hand found and caressed the hardness beneath his front placket.  


Watson himself groaned at the evidence of his interest. “Holmes you are positively rampant,” he murmured into his ear as his hips arched into the touch.  


“ _John_ ,” He breathed. “Please.”  


Watson sobered immediately and seeming to do some battle with himself nodded and stayed his hand. His eyes softened. “To bed, then,” he declared gently. Seeking permission from Holmes’ eyes and finding it he took his hand and led them from the parlor.  


Holmes watched with interest as Watson dimmed the lamps and pulled the shades tightly against the intrusion of the world into his small bedchamber. With confidence Holmes himself could never have feigned in that moment, Watson removed his jacket and braces, collar and cuffs, shirt and shoes until he was standing in naught but his trousers and smalls. “Holmes, may I?” he asked, and not knowing if he meant to remove his attire or the rest of his own, he nodded assent. Watson smiled approvingly and stepped forward, slipping the dressing gown from his shoulders. Holmes shivered under his touch and Watson cocked his head appraisingly.  


“Forgive me but I can’t tell you how long I’ve wanted to do that,” he said.  


Holmes laughed and dared to trace the line of Watson’s collarbone with his fingertips. “There,” he said quite breathless. “Now we’ve both attained a fantasy this evening.”  


“Are we only allowed the one?” Watson challenged. “That hardly seems sporting. After all, I’ve not yet had the chance to do this,” he said, unbuttoning the top two buttons of his shirt and placing a gentle kiss at the hollow of his throat.  


Holmes swallowed hard. “Then surely I must be permitted to do…this,” he stated, mouth finding and persuading the flesh of Watson’s throat, a deep kiss above his carotid, marking the flesh there with his teeth. Watson groaned deeply.  


“Holmes, as ever, you astound me. To bed, now, before I make an utter ruin of things.”  


Holmes chuckled and shyness forgotten in favor of expediency, removed his shirt entirely.  


“Oh, Holmes,” said Watson. “You are lovely.”  


Holmes smiled and laying upon the bed beside his Boswell, met him in a kiss. “As you are to me,” he confessed.  


“You’ll tell me if there’s anything you don’t wish me to do, yes?”  


“Will you put your hands on me?”  


Watson colored and swallowed once. “Yes.”  


“And your mouth as well?”  


“If I may.”  


Holmes allowed his hand to stray over the substantial length beneath Watson’s trousers. “And this as well?”  


“As much or as little as you like.”  


Holmes grinned broadly. “Then please,” he said, unbuttoning his own flies and pushing his trousers and underwhites down and off until he was quite bare before his lover. “Proceed.”  


Watson’s gasp was barely restrained as he moved to cover him. It was a quick, fumbling thing to have him bare beside him. Watson’s erect sex was sturdy and red and desire coiled like a spring, hot in his belly at the sight. Again Watson moved atop him, kissing his neck and mouth tenderly, surgeon’s hands on his body, caressing and gentling. “You’re trembling,” he said, and Holmes noted the doctor was not incorrect.  


“What would you have me do?” Holmes asked.  


Watson’s replied, “Have you a bit of something slippery?”  


“Vaseline in the cabinet,” Holmes directed.  


Watson may have detected a trace of nerves in his voice. His hand rose to caress his hair and face while the other found the jar. Watson applied the salve to his hand then reached for Holmes’ erect sex. The guttural cry that issued from his mouth gave him no end of shame but the reality of Watson touching him intimately was nearly enough to cause him to climax.  


Watson hushed him. “We are quite secluded here, and I rather like to hear your pleasure. Don’t censor yourself on my account,” he insisted, frigging him gently. Holmes felt as if his nerves were set alight by even that small touch.  


“I’m afraid you have me at quite a disadvantage,” Holmes protested, hips moving quite of their own volition. He bit back a moan.  


Watson kissed him fiercely and reached for more lubricant, this time coating his own member. “You think me unaffected?” He asked, then placed Holmes’ hand upon his erection. “You see what you do to me? How I desire you?”  


Holmes did not contain his whimper as Watson’s prick slid through the tunnel of his fingers. He heard Watson’s groan, seemingly in response to Holmes’ own pleasure and in that moment he comprehended and his eyes shot open, seeing his own reflection in Watson’s pleasurable grimace. “We are making love,” he said with awed realization.  


“Yes, Holmes, yes,” said Watson, before lowering himself atop his body and grasping their pricks between them.  


He cried out, hips thrusting him into the impossibly tight channel of their hands. He could smell the Vaseline and beneath that, the issue of pre-ejaculate, musky and enticing, the sweat and natural scent of John, could feel the heat of his body, the softness of his skin and the hardness of his muscle, could hear the sounds of their flesh slipping, the small grunts of effort they made as they worked together, creating sensation, making love between them, he saw the beads of perspiration at his graying temples, the veins of his neck. Holmes looked down and saw their reddened members thrusting together. “ _John_ ,” he cried, startled as he spilled over their hands. His climax racked his body and mind, unaccustomed to the act as he was. Watson’s arm tightened around his shoulders as Holmes shuddered through his completion, following a moment later, biting back on a shout of his own.  


Their breathing was labored. Everything was rather damp with perspiration save for where their bodies were all but fused together by their release. Holmes rather abhorred the feeling but firmly resolved himself to suffer it quietly, for he could think of nothing more absolute in its perfection than the smile upon Watson’s face as he regarded him in that moment.  


There were no flowery declarations needed. Watson was silent as he withdrew, retrieving a flannel and water from the basin, mercifully ridding first Holmes then himself of the evidence of their passion.  


Holmes could not restrain the sigh of relief when he was no longer sticky despite Watson’s laughter at his fastidiousness.  


By mutual, unspoken agreement, Watson joined him in his bed that night. Into the dark and silence, Holmes spoke. “It’s all rather convenient, is it not?”  


Watson tensed beside him. “Convenient?”  


Holmes tightened his arm around his companion. “Perfection. That we should have all this and murders too.”  


Watson snorted a laugh. “Go to sleep, Holmes.”  


There would be Work in the morning and Watson too.  


Holmes slept.


End file.
